It burns.

My breath stutters as magic coils tight around my chest like a corset of thorns, each petal a jagged edge. I stagger, hands curling into fists as I try—I try—to hold it back. But it surges again. A tidal wave of heat and venom. It spills through my veins like black ink, blooming under my skin, beautiful and wrong.

The mirror cracks. I don’t know if it’s the one on the wall or the one in my mind.

My reflection twists. Pale skin turns ghostly. The gold in my robe begins to shimmer with a cruel light, and the sheer fabric becomes smoke, curling off me like venomous mist. My braids loosen, gold barrette slipping through my hair as strands fall wild across my face. The tips darken—blonde bleeding to poison violet, like the bite of a forbidden fruit.

My eyes—no. Not mine anymore. They glow, lilac eclipsed by something darker, something that wants.

Then I see her.

She’s standing there, just beyond the chaos. Eyes wide. Not with fear. With recognition. As if she sees me—beneath the magic, beneath the unraveling.

And for a single second, that look cuts deeper than any spell.

Because I know what she sees: not the perfection I’ve built, not the beauty I’ve bled for. She sees the desperation. The years of being the villain on every stage. The bitterness buried under powdered skin and carefully drawn eyeliner. The quiet ache of knowing that no matter how much I sculpt myself, someone else will always be chosen.

My robe shifts, lengthening, twisting—red deepening into something darker, almost black. Poisoned apple motifs slither and expand across the fabric like blooming bruises. The sash at my waist lashes loose, serpentine, echoing the chaos inside. My crown is no longer metaphor. It erupts—sharp, spined, unnatural. A queen’s elegance married to something monstrous.

And still—she doesn’t run.

Her name catches on my tongue, but no sound escapes. I reach for her. Or maybe I reach to push her away. I don’t know anymore.